Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Behind him he heard the door to the master bedroom open. Moments later a young woman entered the living room still dressed in the flimsy nightgown she had worn to bed.

  “Is there any coffee, Charlie?” she asked.

  Months ago, when she had first started visiting him, he had asked her not to use that abbreviation of his name. “It’s Charles,” he had told her. “Please try to remember.” She had tried, but it was useless. Her mental powers simply couldn’t sustain the thought.

  He looked at her now, enjoying what he saw yet feeling a prick of guilt. She was tall and lean and beautiful, with blond hair that hung to her shoulders, vivid blue eyes, and lips that were suggestively full. There was nothing vulgar about her body, nothing excessive. Her breasts were almost nonexistent, something he found completely alluring. It wasn’t the common perception of physical beauty, but that was inconsequential. The attraction was what she did for him, and he felt himself begin to harden as he studied her from across the room and thought about her skills.

  “Yes, there’s a fresh pot in the kitchen,” he said. “You can bring me a cup as well.”

  The young woman, whose working name was Ginger, turned and moved away, the thong underwear she wore beneath the short nightgown revealing the subtle sway of small, almost childlike buttocks. He stared at her, then turned away, willing denial on his growing passion.

  Ginger, of course, was his other sin, his other failing, he told himself. She was a professional call girl, who came to him one night each week for a fee of five hundred dollars. It was something he prayed that God would understand. Other than Ginger, he lived a life of complete celibacy. Her visits helped him do so. They kept him from the other temptations that might make him unworthy of the path God had chosen for him.

  Ginger returned with two cups of coffee and placed them on the large glass table that stood before a long sectional sofa. Then she came to him slowly and reached up to run her fingers through his graying hair. Despite her own height, she had to rise on tiptoe to accommodate his six foot four inches. She kissed his lips, her tongue moving gently against them. Then she smiled and slowly began to move down the length of his body until she was kneeling in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice catching slightly.

  She smiled up at him as she began to unzip his trousers. “You always ask me the same question,” she said, her own voice husky now, “and I always tell you the same thing. I’m doing what you like me to do in the morning, Charlie.”

  He felt her hand slip around him and let out a small gasp of pleasure.

  “Do you want me to stop, Charlie?” she asked. There was a hint of laughter in her voice that he found disturbing but chose to ignore.

  “No. No, I want you to do what you always do,” he said.

  Boom Boom Rivera sat before the computer terminal, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He was working in DOS, trying to ferret out a problem that had been giving the Opus Christi computer operators fits for the past week. It was a simple glitch, one he could have solved within half an hour—one that any competent technical support person could have fixed just as easily. But the people who ran the order were unwilling to allow outsiders near their machines. That paranoia had now put him precisely where he wanted to be.

  He had diagnosed the problem quickly and had decided to make it seem more difficult than it was. He wanted to make himself appear indispensable, or at least as close to it as these people allowed anyone to be. He also wanted as much time on the system as possible. Sooner or later they’d look the other way. Then it would be game time.

  Peter had brought him to the center the previous day for a series of interviews, and he had played his part just as it had been laid out for him. He was still Ramon Rivera, but now he was twenty, instead of twenty-eight. He was a computer technician for the city, part of a group that kept the city’s entire system up and running. It was a cover story Devlin had arranged, one that would stand up to any checks that Opus Christi made.

  The first interview had dealt with religious questions, and he had followed the script laid out by Peter. His life, he said, had become increasingly meaningless, and he had found himself drawn more and more to the church. But it was difficult. His friends at work mocked him for his faith, and even the few good Catholics he knew had tainted their own beliefs with a worldliness he could not accept. Until he met Peter at one of Opus Christi’s social gatherings, he had begun to question whether his own faith was demanding more of him than people could accept.

  The second interview had been harder. It was conducted by a numerarier named Thomas. He was older than the others, well into his thirties, and he seemed to have all the skills of a good police interrogator. Even the look in his eyes—hard and cold and penetrating—made Boom Boom wonder if he had once been a cop.

  Thomas had concentrated on sex. He had grilled Boom Boom about his past experiences, his attitudes, and his beliefs on what constituted sexual sin. Again, he had followed Peter’s advice, almost choking on the words, silently praying that members of the squad would never find out what he had said.

  He had told Thomas that sex had never been a force in his life. It had frightened him when he was younger, because it seemed so overpowering at times, seemed to occupy so many of his thoughts, even when he did not want it to. Because of this he had decided on personal celibacy, at least until he met someone he wanted to marry. But he had not found any woman who attracted him in anything but a lustful way, and he had just about given up hope of finding someone who valued the same things he did. Lately, he explained, he had even considered the possibility of a religious vocation.

  Thomas had jumped on that, asking why he thought he might make a good priest or brother. Again, he had followed Peter’s advice. He had told Thomas it was that very question that had stopped him from pursuing his interest. He wasn’t good enough. Not yet, at least, and perhaps he never could be. He simply wasn’t close enough to the Lord, not strong enough to live the life he knew Christ wanted. The answers seemed to satisfy Thomas, although his eyes had continued to bore into Boom Boom’s face as if he knew some lie might be found there.

  The final interview had been purely business. It was just as Peter had promised. The order was in desperate need of computer expertise. While it had many experienced computer operators, it completely lacked any technical support staff and had been left with the choice of outside contractors, something its leadership wanted to avoid if at all possible. The third interviewer, whose name was William, had put the best possible spin on that stringent need for privacy.

  “We are a self-contained celibate order, and we try to avoid any outside influences that might jeopardize our spiritual well-being,” he had said.

  Boom Boom had interpreted that as making sure nobody got laid in the computer room.

  When the inquiries ended, Peter and the three interviewers met privately for almost an hour. Peter explained later that he, too, had been thoroughly questioned before the others had agreed on a trial residency, during which Boom Boom would be more completely evaluated. For the present, he would live at the center but would go to his job each day. After a month, if all went well, he would be given the opportunity to become a full-time resident and would work solely for the order. They asked that in the meantime he spend his free hours—those not devoted to religious needs—solving the order’s computer problems under Peter’s supervision.

  Peter remained at his side that Saturday as he worked out the first problem. The computer room was just off the main entrance and was filled with state-of-the-art equipment. Boom Boom wished the NYPD had invested half as much on its own hardware.

  “How long will it take?” Peter whispered, as he looked over Boom Boom’s shoulder.

  “Another half hour or so,” Boom Boom whispered back. He had decided to keep Peter in the dark as well. The guy was already a bag of nerves and would only be worse if he knew about this little scam.

  The room was oddly divided. A high partition ra
n down the center, cutting the room in two. There was no access to the other section from his side, but cables ran through holes in the partition, and he could hear more than one person tapping away on keyboards. He inclined his head in the direction of the clatter. “Are there more computers over there?” he asked.

  “Yes. Female operators work on that side. They have a separate entrance. If you have to work there, you can only go inside after they’re finished working.”

  “Why?”

  Peter bit his lip. “We don’t have any contact. Men and women, I mean. It’s for our spiritual protection.”

  “You mean I won’t see any of the women while I’m here?”

  Peter shook his head. “You may see someone accidentally, but we don’t have any regular interaction. The women live separately. If they have work to do on our side of the building, they do it when we’re not there. They cook and clean down here before seven in the morning. We leave our rooms at seven, and then they clean upstairs. All business areas they work in have separate entrances.” Peter hesitated, as if embarrassed by what he had just revealed. “It’s just the way things are done here.”

  Boom Boom shook his head. “A guy could get lonely for female companionship,” he whispered.

  Peter’s jaw tightened. “It’s not what we’re here for,” he whispered back. “And I wouldn’t talk too freely. Some people believe there are listening devices in some parts of the building.”

  Boom Boom nodded, then raised a thumb in acknowledgment. He kicked himself mentally for not suspecting as much himself. These fruitcakes were as paranoid as anyone he had ever met. He decided to solve the problem at hand quickly, just in case his work was being monitored.

  “I think I’ve got it now,” he said. “Just a few more minutes.”

  Just as Boom Boom put the final touches on his fix, a short, round, balding man entered the room. Peter stood immediately, almost snapping to attention. Boom Boom followed his example.

  “Good morning, Father George.”

  The heavyset man was dressed in a gray pinstriped business suit, making the term father seem out of place. He smiled at Peter and turned to Boom Boom. “Is this the new computer wizard I was told about?” he asked.

  Father George waited while Peter made the introductions. His smile widened as he shook Boom Boom’s hand. “Well, Ramon Rivera, you may be the answer to my prayers. We were beginning to think our computers were possessed.”

  “Sometimes I think they all are,” Boom Boom answered. He returned the smile. “At least some of them seem to suffer from personality disorders.”

  Father George clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, then, you be our resident psychologist and save us from their deviant personalities. The Lord will bless you if you can.”

  Movement behind him made Father George turn. Through the doorway to the computer center, a tall graying man could be seen walking through the lobby.

  “Charles. Just a moment.” Father George turned back to the two younger men. “My next appointment,” he explained, and moved quickly toward the lobby, throwing a “Keep up the good work” over his shoulder as he left.

  Boom Boom watched him. He had the hunched, lumbering gait of many overweight men, almost a waddle. The other man, in contrast, seemed erect and limber. He was well past forty but still had the movements of a younger, more athletic man.

  “Who are they?” Boom Boom asked.

  Peter kept his voice hushed, almost reverently so. “Father George runs the center,” he said. “Father Charles only comes here occasionally. Mostly, he works with the religious—the other priests and the nuns.”

  “They’re both priests?’

  Peter nodded. His thin boyish face had taken on a guilty look. “Father Charles is a supernumerarier. I’m not supposed to know that. The identities of the supernumerarier are kept secret. I found out accidentally when I was working in the business office.”

  “Tell me about these guys, these supernumerarier.” They were both speaking in hushed tones, each still concerned they might be overheard.

  “The supernumerarier are the highest members of our order. Almost all of them are ordained priests. But almost all work outside the order in influential positions. Father Charles is a senior vice president for one of the city’s largest banks. He’s in charge of all their foreign investments.”

  Boom Boom shook his head, struggling to make sense of what he was being told. “So they’re priests who joined your order, then got jobs in outside businesses?”

  Peter shook his head. “It’s the other way around. All of the supernumerarier were successful businessmen before they were brought into the order. They were all deeply religious men, devout Catholics, and they all came to see that the order was the only salvation for the church. Then, later, those who proved themselves worthy were ordained as priests. But they continued working in their professions as well. It’s why no one is supposed to know who they are. It might affect their ability to do the work of the Lord.”

  Again, Boom Boom shook his head. “So they took time off from their jobs and entered a seminary?”

  “No, their instruction for the priesthood was conducted privately. Opus Christi has its own religious order within the overall order itself. Years ago, the pope granted us a personal prelature, which entitles us to ordain our own priests. It’s the same as the Jesuits or the Franciscans or the Dominicans. We operate our own seminaries. They’re not traditional institutions, but I’m sure the fundamental instruction is the same.”

  Boom Boom blew out a long breath. He had a sudden vision of tentacles reaching out everywhere. Hidden priests, ordained privately, who were also influential businessmen. Maybe even doing things they shouldn’t. “That’s quite a setup,” he said. “Quite a nice little setup.”

  Father George’s face was grim. “The police are hounding us, Charles, and we can’t seem to discourage them or even deflect them.”

  Charles Meyerson studied Father George’s eyes. The eyes were where one found weakness, he believed. That simple hint of uncertainty gave it away. Years of negotiation had taught him to look for it, and he thought he saw it now in George.

  They were seated in George’s office. It was large, befitting his position in the order, and it was furnished in a starkly modern decor not unlike Charles’s own office at the bank, which he particularly liked. Yet it seemed to have neither the substance of his own office nor the sense of grandeur he had always associated with the church.

  “What is it they’re pestering you about?” he asked.

  “Sister Margaret,” George said. “The nun who accompanied Sister Manuela to Colombia.” He shook his head. “I still don’t understand any of this. How it all could have happened.”

  “Has Sister Margaret been able to offer any explanation?” Charles asked.

  George shook his head, his fleshy cheeks and jowls quivering with the movement. “She has no idea what happened. She told me personally that Sister Manuela just disappeared one morning for several hours. When she returned she told Sister Margaret that she had wanted to walk around the city where she had grown up. She said Margaret was still asleep when she left, and she hadn’t wanted to disturb her, so she had gone alone. Sister Margaret assumed she had gone off to visit her family, despite our instructions that she not do so.” He raised his hands in frustration. “But no matter what she was doing, it was a complete violation of our rules. And then … then to disappear the way she did after clearing customs, and to have narcotics found in her body! I don’t understand how it could have happened.”

  Charles crossed one leg over the other, taking care that the crease in his trousers would not be damaged. “She obviously went to see her parents or someone in her family. I understand they returned to Colombia a number of years ago. It seems clear they gave her the drugs she attempted to smuggle into the country.” Charles raised his hands, imitating George’s earlier gesture. “I understand it’s quite common in that country, even among the middle class. Narcotics have become almost a c
urrency of choice, I’m told.”

  He shifted in his seat. “It would appear that a family member arranged to smuggle this vile substance to New York and somehow convinced Sister Manuela to help them. Perhaps it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Perhaps the person they had planned to use was simply not available.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s all speculation, of course, but it’s obvious Sister Manuela became ill, and whoever was receiving the narcotics took extreme measures to make sure they weren’t lost.”

  “But she was working for you, on assignment to you.”

  There was a hint of accusation in George’s voice that caused Charles’s jaw to tighten. “Obviously I picked the wrong person. She was simply to oversee the shipment of the artifacts we were moving into the country. I thought her familiarity with the country and its customs made her a wise choice. Apparently I was wrong.”

  Charles decided to turn the table a bit.

  “I’m surprised this tendency toward disobedience hadn’t come to light before this. Usually the order is quite adept at spotting these things.”

  George stared at him. There was little doubt Charles intended to spread the blame, if it came to that. “Obviously, we failed too.” He spoke in a conciliatory tone, still making it clear that while he might share the blame, he would not do so alone.

  A small smile flickered on Charles’s lips. He had gotten the message and actually admired George for having the grit to offer it up. “Where is Sister Margaret now?” he asked.